


Grease

by kristophine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Science Boyfriends, very faintly kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus Christ!” Tony lifted his hands off the steering wheel and then slammed them back down in frustration. “Now, baby? Now? Of all times, now?”</p><p>His beautiful car—his beautiful, sweet Pagani, who had never failed him before—just made a series of clanking noises that gave him his dismal reply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grease

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to ecce-meliora for preventing me from making a TERRIBLE CLOTHING ERROR, and to gearheadgynoid, librarian of sportscars, for recommending the Pagani. Good Lord. You should google that car. It's very sexy.

 “Jesus _Christ!_ ” Tony lifted his hands off the steering wheel and then slammed them back down in frustration. “ _Now,_ baby? Now? Of all times, now?”

His beautiful car—his beautiful, sweet Pagani, who had never failed him before—just made a series of clanking noises that gave him his dismal reply.

He pulled out his cellphone, _archaic,_ he should have been able to start his baby up and make the call through her, and started searching. He found a tow truck guy with five-star Yelp reviews. When the guy showed up he was blond and, inexplicably, wearing a purple crop-top. The guy took one look at the Huayra and said, “There’s only one garage for a pretty baby like this.”

“Hey, watch how you talk about my precious,” said Tony with half his attention, gently stroking her hood. “Where is it?”

“About a mile east. You want me to take her there? I’ll give you a lift.”

Tony sighed, already tapping out his apologies to his PA with instructions to cover for him at the gala. _Not shenanigans,_ he added. _Actual literal car trouble_ and he included a pic of the car on the tow truck for good measure.

 _For once in your life,_ she replied sweetly.

The tow truck guy was hooking up the chains. Tony flinched every time they rattled; the guy seemed pretty careful about the paint but there was no such thing as _too_ careful. The black was glossy, deep, infinite, and the delicate red hourglass on the hood made him particularly proud.

“Where’d you get something this nice?” asked the guy.

“Oh, you know, Cracker Jack box,” said Tony, rolling his eyes.

The guy just snorted out a laugh and stuck out his hand once he’d finished getting her trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. “I’m Clint.”

Tony took one hand off the phone to shake. “Tony.”

“I take cash, check, or credit cards. Local checks only.”

Tony gestured at the car. “Do I look like I’m not good for it? I assure you, I’m good for it.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “So cash, check, or card?”

“Card, card.” Tony fumbled for his money clip and flashed it. “Black Amex. Good enough for you?”

“It sure is,” said Clint cheerfully, and he flung open the door on the driver’s side of the cab. “Hop in.”

Tony managed to get the massive door handle to pop and hauled himself up into the cab, which smelled faintly of pizza and wet dog. His suit was never going to be the same. He sighed, pushing his jacket sleeves up and buckling himself in.

“You run a grooming service out of here or what?” he asked, as Clint got the truck started and eased them very, very slowly and painfully onto the road. “It smells like the AKC and there’s hair everywhere.” White dog hair was an omnipresent film over the red velveteen upholstery.

“Lucky couldn’t make it today,” said Clint easily, ignoring the jibe. “Good for you. He doesn’t like other people in the truck.”

“How very delightful.” Tony poked a French fry of indeterminate age out of the way with the toe of his shoe. “So how long is it going to take to get to the garage? I’m supposed to be at an event right now, my PA may kill me if I can’t get back there in something resembling a reasonable amount of time. They don’t know how to party without me.”

“Not long,” said Clint. “Mind if I put on the radio?”

“What?” asked Tony in flat disbelief, but Clint took that as permission and hit a button that filled the cab with the melodious strains of Bruce Springsteen. Tony gritted his teeth. The low throb at the base of his skull that had been threatening started to turn into an unmistakable tension headache.

It was a quick drive, actually, before they were pulling up at a low, squat warehouse. Flickering green letters in the darkening evening proclaimed it as Ed’s Repair.

“So is this Ed good with Huayras?” asked Tony sourly, squinting out the windshield at it.

“What?” Clint followed his gaze. “Oh. Ed’s been gone for years. Bruce just didn’t feel like changing the sign.”

“Okay, so, is _Bruce_ good with Huayras? I’m not asking out of idle curiosity, here, this is _very special_ to me and I don’t let just anybody put their hands on her.”

Clint laughed, punching open his door, which creaked on the hinges like it was contemplating whether it was time to give up and succumb to gravity. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Bruce is a fucking expert. I can’t bring him a nice fast little car he can’t fix.”

“Okay, okay,” said Tony, slightly mollified as he swung open his own door and stepped out onto the runner. “That’s the kind of endorsement I’m looking for. Although if it turns out you’re wrong and he mangles my baby—”

“There will be no mangling,” said a man who’d come to stand in the mouth of garage. He was backlit by the work lights, but Tony could see the edge of his smile.

“Oh, really? Can you verify that for me? Are you Bruce?”

“I am.” Bruce was wiping grease off his hands with a rag. He tucked it into one of the eight million pockets on his overalls and came forward. “And you are?”

“Tony. This is my Huayra, or as I like to call her, my one, my only, my precious.”

“Nice,” said Bruce, eyes wandering over her as he nodded. He had a dark, low voice, velvety and quiet. “I would ask if you’re _aiming_ for Gollum but it’s transparently obvious that you are.”

“Hey,” protested Tony automatically, but he found himself sizing up Bruce instead; dark curling hair, square jaw—Tony’s eyes were adjusting to the dimming twilight, and he could see that Bruce was wearing glasses, faint flashes of reflected light obscuring his eyes.

“Okay,” called Clint, “I’m ready to get her set—hand, Bruce?”

Bruce looked away from Tony and walked over to Clint, who helped him get the car onto one of the pedestals.

Clint held out a hand to Tony. “This is where your ride stops. Black Amex?” He somehow managed to simultaneously infuse those last two words with amusement and scorn.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony handed it over and Clint tucked his tongue into the corner of his mouth in concentration as he ran it through one of those little phone attachments. Tony glanced back over at Bruce—Bruce was doing a slow walk-around, inspecting the car.

“There you go,” said Clint, handing the card back. “You can get a cab or whatever from here once Bruce’s done with you.”

“Thanks,” Tony had to call after him, because Clint was already slinging himself back up into the truck. The tow truck made a loud puttering noise, started, and Clint was on his way, with a merry belch of diesel all that marked his vanishing presence.

Tony turned back to where Bruce had come to a stop, hands on his hips, in front of the car.

“What do you think?” Tony asked. Bruce’s forehead was creased in concentration. Under the work lights his face was dramatically shadowed, eyes almost invisible, mouth incongruously full-lipped and sensual.

“Hmm.” Bruce tossed Tony’s keys up in the air and caught them, the bright jingling noise of metal echoing in the shop. There were a couple of other cars there, and the overwhelming smell of oil and metal and concrete mingling with the wet rainy smell of the pavement outside after a late-summer shower. “Well, I think I’m going to see if she’ll start, and then I’ll pop the hood.”

“Don’t be coy,” said Tony, putting a hand on Bruce’s arm. “I want to know whether she’ll live.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered up to Tony’s face, and for the first time Tony could see them clearly—his eyes were clear and sharp as lasers. Without looking down, Bruce wrapped the fingers of his free hand around Tony’s wrist and tightened them like a steel cage. He lifted Tony’s hand free, and when he let go, Tony found himself drawing in a short, sharp breath—he’d been holding it, hadn’t he? Hadn’t even noticed.

“We’ll find out,” said Bruce evenly. “If you want to stick around while I do the initial diagnostics, that’s fine. If you want to get a cab to your destination—” he nodded at Tony’s suit, taking in the luxurious fabric, the custom cut, neat Pucci pocket square—“that’s fine, too.”

Tony should have left. The car was with a mechanic. Who’d been vouched for. He was going to be late to the gala—hell, at this rate, might miss the gala. His PA was going to kill him.

“I’ll stick around,” he said, holding Bruce’s stare.

A smile quirked the corner of Bruce’s mouth but didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful where you lean,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to mess up that suit.”

Tony shrugged. “If it comes to that, I’ve got a closet full of these puppies. Just looking for an excuse to wreck them, at this point, it makes the fashion decisions easier.”

Bruce had turned his back to Tony, kneeling to check something. “Of _course_ you do,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not surprised you’ve got a closet full of suits,” muttered Bruce—Tony had to strain to hear it—“and I’m also not surprised you find excuses to destroy them.”

“Hey, they’re just suits. They’re not like her. Are they, pretty baby?” he crooned to the car.

“I would hope not.” Bruce stood up again. “Custom paint job. Nice work.”

“Well, I do have a reputation to uphold. Quality _and_ frivolity. I found a real artist, works out of Brooklyn.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Black Widow.” Tony smiled at the hood. “After a friend of mine.”

Bruce’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “You must have interesting friends.”

“You have no _idea._ ”

Bruce seemed to lose interest at that, crouching to murmur something genuinely inaudible. He was probably talking to the car. The Widow had that effect on people.

Tony pulled out his phone, but he couldn’t keep his attention focused on it. His eyes kept drifting up to Bruce.

Bruce opened the driver’s side door and, before Tony could say anything, pulled a clean towel off a rack and tossed it over the seat before climbing in. He turned the key in the ignition; nothing happened. Bruce cocked his head, listening into the silence of the garage, and tried it again. Another nothing.

Bruce pulled the lever to pop the hood and climbed back out. As he walked around, he ran his hand over her. He eased the hood up and bent down to look inside. “Hm,” he said. His overalls were pulled tight over his ass, blue fabric almost gray in the low light, straining against muscular curves.

Tony found he couldn’t stay where he was; he drifted forward anxiously. “Hm? What does _Hm_ mean? Is that a good hm or a bad hm? Is she going to be all right?”

Bruce looked up, laughter in his eyes, mouth tight with it. “You’re in my light.”

“Fine, fine.” Tony held up his hands and took a couple of steps back. “But what are you thinking? What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s going to take me a couple more minutes to be sure. Garage closes at eight.”

Tony glanced down at his phone—damn. It was five past. “Does that mean you won’t look at her until morning? I need to know what the prognosis is, Doc. I’ll pay extra.”

“Fine.” Bruce didn’t sound all that put out about it. He straightened up from under the hood. “But I don’t want any other homework.” He walked over to a button on the wall and hit it; one by one, the massive garage doors started to close. They groaned as they moved, and Tony found himself thinking, almost against his will, that he could probably rig them for a smoother action.

“I was thinking it was the ignition system,” said Tony, leaning over to squint at the engine block. “I could have done something with it back at my labs, but that’s on the other side of town.”

“Oh, you’re a mechanic?” asked Bruce, with a wealth of thinly-veiled sarcasm.

“Mechanical engineer. For damn near everything. So, yeah, I might as well be.”

“And yet here you are,” said Bruce. He gave Tony a gentle push out of the way so he could get back under the hood. “In my way.”

“Well, it’s true I don’t spend as much time on cars—”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Hey, Stark Industries? You know us? I’m sure you do. What we’re doing with clean energy—”

“Could run _a_ car, _someday,_ but not _this_ car, today. So would you _please_ get out of my light.”

“Picky, picky,” muttered Tony, but he shuffled over a little anyway. The places where Bruce’s hand had landed on his side to push him felt electric, tingling. “Most people are more impressed.”

“ _Most_ people aren’t watching you twitch like a rabbit on meth,” Bruce said from under the hood.

“That’s—okay, that’s very unflattering, but I’m willing to forgive it.”

“Generous of you.”

Tony picked up a wrench that was lying on a nearby cart, and started to toss it idly from hand to hand. “You like these? I always thought their carbon content was a little—”

Bruce’s hand clamped on his wrist again, and he dragged his eyes up to meet Bruce’s. Bruce looked simultaneously deadly annoyed and perfectly calm, and with his free hand he took the wrench away from Tony.

“ _Please,_ ” Bruce ground out, “stop touching things without permission.”

Tony opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His heart was racing. Bruce’s hand was leaving a smear of dark, gritty grease on his wrist, sleeve pushed up to expose the bone. His cock was starting to throb.

Bruce’s eyes searched his face, and something changed; something like a smile came over his mouth.

“Oh, I see,” said Bruce softly. “I see.”

Tony couldn’t say anything. He just stood there, while Bruce’s grip on his arm never eased, and he heard himself breathing—fast, almost silent little pants.

Bruce looked him over. Head to toe and back, a real cruising look, thorough. Tony’s cock was hard now, straining against his fly.

“You look like you want to get naked for me,” said Bruce, voice still even and low. “Am I right?”

Tony opened his mouth—couldn’t quite say it, couldn’t make himself say it.

“Or maybe,” Bruce said, cocking his head to one side, “you _don’t_ want to get naked. Maybe you want _me_ to ruin that suit for you. Big man at the garage, _mechanic,_ works with his hands. Covered in grease. Is that it?”

He took a step in towards Tony, in the already miniscule distance between them. Tony’s hands moved spasmodically, like he was going to touch Bruce; Bruce shook his head minutely, and reached out with his big, calloused hands, and dragged them down Tony’s sleeves, from his shoulders to his elbows, squeezing. Tony made an involuntary noise, somewhere between arousal and pain.

“Yeah,” said Bruce consideringly. “I think that’ll do.”

He wrapped a hand around the back of Tony’s neck, still gritty and a little slick, and pulled Tony in to kiss him—kissed him hard, bit his lip hard enough to sting, sucked on the bite. Tony groaned low in his throat, leaning in to it as much as he dared.

“There we go,” said Bruce, leaning back. Tony swayed after him, but Bruce stepped back. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Strip.”

“Wha—?” Tony managed to protest, even though the word came out mangled, heavy.

“You don’t want to get naked.” Bruce folded his arms, still easy, still confident, even with his erection outlined in the coveralls. “You like having the suit on. You like feeling like I’m looking at the _suit,_ touching the _suit._ That’s not how this goes.”

“I can’t,” said Tony, seized by sudden panic.

Bruce just waited, staring at him. He raised his eyebrows a little, clearly unimpressed.

Tony found himself reaching for the buttons of his jacket. Popping them one by one, until he could pull off the bespoke jacket; he stood with it in his hands for a moment, irresolute.

“Drop it.”

Tony complied.

“You know what to do.” Bruce’s voice was calm.

He did. He started in on his waistcoat. Then his shirt. Burgundy this-season Prada, dropped into the heap. He was starting to shake by the time he got to his undershirt—his hands clenching in the fabric of the tank-top, digging into the white cotton, stretching and warping it.

“Take it off, pretty boy,” said Bruce. “It’s all right.”

Tony took a deep breath and yanked it over his head in one less than fluid motion. The scars covered half his chest—there was the obvious one, huge and old and white, running the whole length of his sternum and then some; the newer ones, laced around it, pink and red.

“There we go.” It was impossibly gentle. “Now the rest.”

After that, it was easy enough to kick off his shoes, letting the mirror-slick black leather scuff irretrievably on the concrete floor, and step out of his socks and slacks and finally his boxer-briefs. All tossed into the pile with the rest of his clothes. Naked, the slight chill in the air raised goosebumps. He resisted the urge to rub his arms or cross them over his chest, instead lightly linked his fingers behind his back.

“That’s better.” Bruce circled around him, like he had the car, running his eyes over Tony’s exposed body. Tony felt something cold touch one of his hands—“Hold on to this for me. Both hands.” It was the wrench Bruce had taken away from him earlier. He tightened his fingers around it, still both hands behind his back.

Bruce reached out and ran a hand over Tony’s ass. Tony jumped, pushing back into it as his heart kicked out a couple of high-speed beats.

“You want me to fuck you?” It sounded, for all the world, like mild curiosity. “I might.” Bruce came back around in front of him, scanning him again. He reached up and pulled the zipper of his coveralls down, shrugging his shoulders out of the sleeves so they fell around his waist, baring his broad shoulders and muscled arms. He leaned back against the car nonchalantly, and pulled out his cock, which, Jesus Christ, was _huge,_ long and thick, already hard, pre-come beading at the tip. “Convince me.”

Tony knew what _that_ meant, at least, and he started to step forward, but Bruce held up a hand and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“On your knees,” said Bruce.

And maybe that shouldn’t have felt so good, but Tony dropped to his knees immediately, no question. It felt like a relief. He edged foward, kneecaps dragging over the rough floor, until he reached Bruce and he could drop his head—he glanced up once, at Bruce’s face, looking for permission.

“Go ahead.” He didn’t think he was imagining the note of fondness in Bruce’s voice.

So he did; he started slow, just grazing his still-throbbing lower lip over the head of Bruce’s cock, breathing hot wet breath on it. A little searing tang of salt in his mouth. Bruce inhaled sharply, which felt like a victory.

He turned his face, nuzzled the side of Bruce’s cock, mouthing at it. He ran his cheek over it. The metal of the wrench was rapidly warming in his hands, and he hadn’t been told to let go of it, so he didn’t. He pulled back, let Bruce’s cock slip into his mouth as he pushed forward, until it slid into his throat. He was a fucking champ at this, could deep-throat until the cows came home, _loved it_. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bruce’s knuckles going white where he’d wrapped his hands around the edge of the hood. Oh, that felt good. Every time he got a little hitch out of Bruce’s breathing, every time Bruce trembled, that was a victory.

“You like sucking cock?” asked Bruce. His voice was going hoarser. Tony hummed softly in agreement around his dick, drawing back just enough to breathe and paint a long stripe with his tongue inside his mouth, right up the underside of the shaft. Bruce’s hips twitched towards him.

“You like getting fucked?” It was just this side of a threat, dark and thick and slow. Tony couldn’t help groaning in response.

Bruce put his hands on Tony’s shoulders, pushed him back off Bruce’s cock—he made a plaintive noise. He could feel the sweat filming his forehead. He didn’t care. Christ, he wanted to suck that cock, he wanted to get fucked, he wanted _everything._

“Stand up. Hands on the hood. Spread your legs and bend over.”

Tony did it as fast as humanly possible, dropping the wrench with a loud rattle on the floor in his haste. Bruce was breathing hard, cock flushed and heavy.

He felt Bruce’s hand on his, and for a moment he was puzzled, until he felt what Bruce was— _oh._ It was a tube of lube.

“You want it so bad,” said Bruce, “work for it. Show me.”

That—he could feel his face getting hot. That was a whole different level of exposure. But he was getting desperate for it, and after a moment’s indecisiveness, he flipped the cap with his free hand, got his fingers good and wet, and reached back, dropping the tube. He didn’t need to be told that he had to do it standing like this, bent over his car like he was getting frisked. It was an awkward angle. It was humiliating. It was perfect.

He slid a finger into himself without any prelude and he heard Bruce take in a short, surprised breath. “Good,” said Bruce, and heat welled in Tony’s cock. “Good.”

So he took a deep breath, focused on relaxing, and added a second, with barely any pause, working himself gently.

“That’s _nice_ ,” said Bruce. “Good job.”

It was irresistible. He couldn’t—he had to. He got the third finger in, despite the angle, despite how he had to stretch his arm and bend his wrist to do it, until he was almost in pain. It was so good, but it wasn’t _enough._

“Jesus Christ,” said Bruce, and that was it, he must have had enough, because Tony registered the soft metallic tearing noise of the condom packet just as Bruce stepped forward. Then Bruce had wrapped his hand around Tony’s wrist and pulled his fingers out of his ass, and there was Bruce’s cock, sliding up against him. It took a minute. He was so _big,_ hot and hard, dripping lube over his cock, and Tony found himself pushing back, whimpering under his breath, trying to get Bruce’s cock in his ass. Bruce took a breath like he was going to say something and then let it out wordlessly as he slid in, until he couldn’t push any further in, until Tony could feel his balls.

“Oh, God,” said Bruce. “God. Yeah. You like this? Show me you like this.”

Tony squeezed around him and gasped, doing it again and again for the waves of pleasure. Bruce made a bitten-off noise and started to thrust. It was unbelievable. His cock was so big, punishingly huge, stretching him almost to the point of pain, and with each thrust he felt like he was about to come. It was driving him insane. He needed—he had to—“ _please,_ ” he got out, and Bruce, that _bastard,_ just _stopped,_ pinning his hips with his hands, so he couldn’t move back, either.

“You want to make a mess of the car that bad? When I say. Not before.”

“Jesus _christ,_ ” Tony whined, and squeezed around him again.

“ _When I say._ Is that clear?”

“Yes. Fine. _Yes._ ”

Bruce started to thrust again, tiny, slow thrusts, just to show Tony who was driving, and Tony had to bite his lip against the impulse to push back again, until finally Bruce lengthened it and drove faster, harder, into him over and over again. It felt like forever before Bruce leaned forward and said in his ear, “ _Now,_ ” and without a hand on him, Tony came, all over the hood of the car.

“Good boy,” said Bruce. Tony didn’t even have a moment to savor it, because Bruce was pulling out of him, spinning him around, lifting him like he weighed nothing and setting him down on his back on the hood—then climbing up to kneel between his legs. He pushed Tony against the windshield and folded Tony’s legs up over his shoulders, the metal cold and slick against Tony’s back, and then he just drove right back in. Tony couldn’t keep from shouting, his cock twitching as it tried valiantly to come again, Bruce pounding into him until he bottomed out and came with a low grunt. He could feel Bruce’s cock twitching inside him as he came. Tony squeezed around him again, getting a moan out of him.

Bruce leaned back and stared into his eyes, still inside him. Tony wanted to look anywhere else; he was naked, covered in sweat and come, scars on display.

“Hey,” said Bruce. He reached out and ran one hand over Tony’s lifted thigh possessively, stroking up from his asscheek to the hollow of his knee. “ _Good_ boy.” Tony melted into the touch, shivering.

They stayed like that until Bruce’s cock finally softened enough to slip out of Tony, and Tony clenched down after it, disappointed. Bruce tied off the condom and tossed it toward the trash can, and then, glancing down at Tony, he lowered himself down to lie next to Tony on the hood.

Tony was staring up at the roof of the garage.

They were quiet for a while, harsh breathing evening out. Bruce’s hand snaked out and landed on Tony’s side; not quite on the scars, but close. He started to rub small circles on Tony’s side with his thumb.

Finally, Bruce said, “You’re so gorgeous.”

“Look who’s talking,” said Tony immediately. “You’re a premium, grade-A hunk of man-beef.”

“Man... beef?” Bruce got out, laughing silently.

“I said it, I meant it, don’t make me repeat it. I’d embarrass both of us.”

“I think we’re a little beyond embarrassment,” said Bruce, flattening his palm to rub wider circles on Tony’s side, straying onto his chest.

“That’s one interpretation. I’m certainly open to it.”

“Do I get to ask what these are from?” Bruce grazed his fingertips over the edge of the scars.

Tony took a deep breath and said, “Repair of a defect. Didn’t—didn’t really take, the first time, as it turned out.”

“Self-conscious?”

“Got it in one. Give the man a prize.”

“I can’t—I won’t tell you that you can’t be. It’s your body. But—I think you’re so goddamn pretty.”

“Well, you’re obviously a pervert,” said Tony. He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his lips, could feel them curling up at the corners. “I don’t know that your judgment’s reliable.”

“ _Really,_ ” said Bruce.

“Mm-hmm. I’d have to see some more demonstrations of these perversions to be sure, of course.”

Bruce smiled, slowly; Tony could see it out of the corner of his eye, growing, transforming his face. “I think that could be arranged.”

“Also, you owe me a carwash.” He ran a finger down a drying smear of not at all uncertain origin.

“Happily.”

“You should do it personally. I don’t know that I trust her with anybody else.”

“Oh, really?” Bruce raised one eyebrow.

“Yeah, and you should definitely do it in something skin-tight, white. You know. Get it all good and wet. And sudsy.”

“I’m starting to think you only want me for a music video.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” said Tony, and Bruce raised himself up on one elbow and bent down over Tony to kiss him again—soft and sweet, this time—and Tony thought he’d never wasted a suit in a better way, or missed a gala for something so much better.


End file.
